


Open Wounds, Open Heart

by skavanders



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Cuddling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Reader-Insert, gender neutral reader, male reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27069715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skavanders/pseuds/skavanders
Summary: You, a reserved ravenclaw, were able to find solace in draco’s company within the long hours of the night, and found that it was strangely therapeutic. Draco expresses that the feeling is mutual
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Gender Neutral reader, Draco Malfoy/Male reader, Draco Malfoy/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	Open Wounds, Open Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GammaDraconis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GammaDraconis/gifts).



> not necessarily important but halfway through writing this i thought of the john mulaney post where it’s like “if you’re comparing the badness of two words and you can’t even say one of them? that’s the worse word” and god it was so fucking funny so just comment if you know where it fits- also, as listed in the tags i put male, female and gender neutral, meaning that this was requested to be for a male reader, but turned out gender neutral. i’m like 99% sure i didn’t gender the reader, but if one of you notices gendered terms, please let me know and i’ll fix it right away!

**DRACO MALFOY WAS A PROBLEMATIC BOY,** which was to be understood when considering how often his persona reflected that which he unwillingly endured; and, sad as it may seem, was usually under the influence of his own father, whom he had once regarded with respect and even _love_. The dark and calloused glint that could be seen dancing within his gray eyes was a result from the many long years that had been spent attempting to harden himself into the image of perfection. Wrath and ruin was his legacy, as it was his father’s and his father before him, and as far as he knew, every Malfoy prior. His duty, as stated repeatedly and fervently so that it would fester and cause his mind to bend to Lucius’s will, was to wipe every Muggle-born sorcerer from the earth’s face. Half-blood’s, though apparently loyal to the Dark Lord in the case of his godfather, were nonetheless an abomination; a disgrace to the magic profession and the son or daughter of a blood traitor. _“Muggles.”_ His father would seethe, a scowl similar to his own forming around the rim of his mug as he glared at the newspaper. _“They’re filthy—the whole lot of them, I tell you.”_ The Malfoy heir liked to berate himself for having believed such lies, and on top of that, for acting upon them so cruelly that his rivaling peers had grown to loathe him. 

A good portion of his life that could have been used to nurture his childhood, _wasted_ , in the hands of his forbearer. Draco was not particularly pleased knowing that the man who raised him was as despicable as he _felt_ , now, staring in the mirror to find his likeness replaced by a vision of himself that he wished not to come to light — wholly corrupt in all aspects. It was because of this that his sixth year restricted him to the vast hallways of Hogwarts, where he would reminisce on his less than righteous deeds over the next few weeks while awaiting the arrival of his fellow Death Eaters. Not that he would be able to return home even if desired, that was. Draco sometimes felt as though returning to the manor would mean reverting to his former self; as though the shadow of his _future_ self had not been trailing behind him for an ungodly amount of time, reminding him daily of the mistakes he had made, and how easily he could be manipulated into making them again. And yet, as more time passed between the incident with Katie Bell and being stuck in the hospital wing after Harry’s usage of the Sectumsempra spell, Draco found himself caring less and less about the consequences of his actions. Not the ones in favor of Voldemort, but in favor of you. 

While you shouldn’t have been of any importance to him, whether because of the views passed down through his family or because you were in an opposing house, it appeared as if fate had willed your relationship with Draco to blossom, even during such solemn times as these. But what fate wished upon him would not be so easily obtained, and he was originally quite weary of you for your stoic demeanor. Your reserved stance in society was something he could relate to, in a way, and it had almost become a pastime, wondering what emotions were rumbling around in that head of yours and how they so rarely presented themselves. Draco was both fascinated and enamored with you, and if that was not enough to send his heart racing with fear, he didn’t know what was. 

How you came to love him back was a mystery that very few knew about, and even more puzzling was why you had been so willing to submit yourself to him. Or rather, he was submitting to _you_ , in the manner of putting himself in a position that was previously thought to be unachievable. To his bewilderment, him being a Slytherin did not seem to bother you in the slightest; if anything, you frequently noted how his ambition and leadership were admirable traits. _“He’s awful, isn’t he? He must be!” The Ravenclaw to your right said in a hushed tone whilst jabbing a thumb over his shoulder, directed at the opposite end of the great hall. “Surely with all the time you spend with him, you’ve come to realize what a prat he is.” But you knew better. Evidently, Luna, who sat across from you, also knew better, and she expressed this by looking up from her edition of the Quibbler to glance at you with apprehension. Tyler Beckett, the boy who had started the conversation, gestured between the two of you as if expecting you to agree with him. Upon seeing that you were not in the mood for controversial topics at the moment, Luna folded the newspaper in half and stared at Tyler. There was a forewarning glimmer hidden behind the typical vacancy that filled her eyes that caused the other to shift in discomfort. “Don’t be rude, Beckett—I’m sure Y/n has a reasonable explanation as to why he likes being with Draco so much, and_ you _don’t need to know it.”_

You remained grateful to this day that Luna was your friend, and that she would always stick up for you. Ironically, most of those in Ravenclaw did not share her wisdom, nor the intuitive compassion needed to figure out that Draco Malfoy was not the enemy. Or rather, he was less an enemy than the true threat that sat waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike, and whose name could not be uttered in fear of summoning him. What once puzzled you, but had long since grown into a rather distressing realization, was that Draco _understood_ what people more than often made him out to be; which was, quite frankly, _a pompous piece of shit_ ; and had accepted it as the unforgiving truth that would would most likely be buried with those who resented him. You could begin to understand how someone so egotistical had grown so self-depreciating in such a short amount of time, but that did not lessen the pain of knowing that it was _your_ Draco suffering from it. This was _your lover_ , of whom you cherished so deeply that you would weep at the mere sight of him. 

Was it not enough for everyone else to hate him, that he too must scorn himself for existing?

You pondered this every single day, only to the avail of breaking your routine of wistful daydreams. You pondered it the night before, when all had seemed lost in Draco’s mind and the two of you, amid the cold atmosphere of the dungeons, curled up in his bed to feed from the subtle warmth radiating from your bodies, mere inches apart. You were only friends, then, and it was but a few hours before awakening the next morning that your fate with him was sealed. 

“Y/n…” Draco began, his throat raw and his voice hoarse from dehydration, “What’s the name of that being muggles worship? The one you told me about?”

You stared at him, unblinking, and after a few seconds of silence, answered him in a low whisper. “God?” It was more of a question, really, but Draco was satisfied by this as a pensive expression graced his features. “What about him?”

He thought on this for the next moment or so without saying anything, eventually tearing his gaze from yours to look at his hands, which gently grasped the silken sheets. Being that you were a Half-blood, your parents had raised you among muggles with the intention of getting something out of both worlds, and by extension, having the chance to teach others about the so-called extravagant cultures that they introduced. You certainly weren’t a man of religion, and neither were your mother and father, but growing up in the rural area where you did lead to various views being shared amid differing company. The ones you heard revolved mostly around politics and religious affairs where God was involved, and while it did not interest you all that much, you were informed nevertheless. As the quietude stretched on and Draco still had yet to speak, you contemplated all that you had heard about the figure those muggles in particular advocated. It was mixed messages, for the most part, especially when asking people who did not believe in said deity, but you could apprehend it all the same. 

But that didn’t answer your question as to why Draco was suddenly so interested in him. 

“What does God think about people like me?” He said, abruptly ending the silence and causing you to jerk back in shock, your brows furrowed. You took a sharp breath, chewed over the inquiry, then closed your mouth and frowned. There was no point in asking what he had meant by that when you already had a suspicion, however, you hoped that your intuition was wrong and that he was simply making small talk. _Bullshit_ , you thought. 

“If you mean troubled young men who are afraid to walk their own path because they’re afraid that it will lead to their persecution, then I believe he favorites them.” The corners of his lips curled downwards at this, and his eyes flickered up to examine your face for any hint of mocking, but he found that there was only sympathy. Draco said nothing and you took it as a sign to continue, scoffing lightly and shuffling closer so that he would ultimately have to look at you wherever he placed himself. 

“But _I_ for one don’t trust any of that superstitious poppycock, and _God be damned_ if he turned you away even if that _wasn’t_ true.” You chuckled, your heart fluttering at the sight of the small smile overtaking his solemn guise. To your dismay, it was for a mere two seconds before Draco was frowning again.

“What…what do _you_ think of me?” 

And it shouldn’t have hurt so bad to hear such words tumbling from his mouth, but it did—oh, how horribly it did. Draco observed your mien as it shifted from uncertainty to anger to sadness; all unusual when paired beside your usual impassive expression; in an instant. Every nerve in your body was telling you that _this_ was the perfect time to announce what had been residing behind your walls for the past three years; all the love that needed nourishing, and the heartbreak to be healed. Instead of feeling nauseous and unsure, you were overwhelmed by a sense of courage and peace that you had not known for a long time. Draco was the single person who managed to invoke an experience as deep as that, and you were quite assured that no one would ever come as close as he did. Without knowing it, you threaded your fingers with his and started rubbing circles on the back of his hand, thus eliciting a quiet gasp from Draco. When he did not pull away, you pushed forward. 

“I think you’re a boy who needs someone to love you unconditionally—someone who will accept your flaws and still see you as the most beautiful creature to ever exist. I think you’re broken, but are too worried that the first person you decide to trust will break you further, rather than try to fix you—” You were astounded to see fresh tears welling up in Draco’s eyes, only for him to shut them tightly and hang his head in shame, his hand now shakily clutching yours. 

“—I think you’ve been betrayed, and you took it out on innocent people because you didn’t know what else to do. I think someone hurt you, and you believe you deserved it, when you don’t.” 

It mattered not now whether he returned your feelings, but from what you could tell, he needed this, and you would be more than happy to provide. Maybe it was all instinct; leaning into your touch when he desired comfort and whatnot; but this was Draco, as you soon remembered, and no one else had ever seen this side of him, as far as you knew. He was more _vulnerable_ , and from the scathing glint that could be seen in his gaze, you came to the conclusion that he did not approve of this feeling. Something deep inside told you that it was directed at himself, and not you, even when in his own mind, he half blamed you for making him feel the way he did, and often wondered if you were doing it on purpose. 

You pulled away from his grasp and moved to cup his cheeks, gently forcing his head upward so that he was looking directly at you, his face flushed an embarrassing shade of pink. One of your free hands traveled along the bare skin peeking out from under his dress shirt, where the first five buttons were undone to reveal his chest. Your fingertips ran across his collarbone, and Draco shivered, a barely notable keen slipping past his parted lips as goosebumps broke out amid his pale complexion. When you reached the newly healed scars that marked his chest, he weakly grabbed your wrist in protest, ashamed of the imperfections that he was now permanently burdened with. His silent pleas fell upon deaf ears, and you slowly snaked your hand underneath the fabric to trace his wounds. There was nothing sexual about your actions, and yet, a thrill arose from within that prompted you to continue, especially when Draco gasped and leaned his forehead against yours. Without ceasing your movements, you brushed your noses together and looked him in the eye, your lips hesitantly inching forward until softly brushing with his. 

The feeling it invoked could not be described, not simply because Draco’s mind had gone completely blank, but because he was sure that nothing would ever come close to expressing how wonderful it was to share in this moment with you. He sighed heavily through his nose, kissing back with just as much passion, and after a few minutes of this, pulled back panting. He heard the breathy exclamation of “I love you” from your direction, but it was rather muffled. He could feel the beginnings of a response forming, but they came out in pieces, and Draco was soon prevented from talking. You placed a finger to his lips and wiped the tears that had begun to trickle down his face. Draco could not recall when he had started crying, but he felt no pain when doing so—there was only a blooming warmth in his chest that he recognized as adoration. The sound of you whispering sweet nothings into his ear was all that was needed for him to fall into a peaceful slumber, and as the world turned dark, he felt secure in your arms, which were wrapped around his waist in the form of a caring embrace. 

Draco could not tell how much time had passed since you both fell asleep, but he was hardly concerned because of how good it felt to be well-rested. He dreamt of green fields and sunsets of yellow, pink and orange; much the contrast to his usual nightmarish hallucinations; and awoke just as pleasantly, as though all was right in the world. Then, everything came rushing back—the Vanishing Cabinet, Voldemort, his father and the rest of the Death Eaters—and Draco’s heart sunk. Beside him, you remained asleep, and in a moment of fear, he reached for his left forearm and pulled up the sleeve, nearly sobbing in defeat once seeing that the dark mark was still there. He quickly pulled his sleeve down and laid back, allowing his labored breathing to steady itself until he was calm again. Then, he looked to you, and the ache in his heart suddenly overpowered the unsettling nausea he previously felt. Draco caught himself absentmindedly tracing the outline of your cheekbones with his thumb, and a delightful knot formed in his stomach when you shifted, a soft grunt rising from your throat. 

It was an estival dreamland that once existed only in his mind, and now lay before him, too real to be mistaken for fantasy. It resembled sun rays coruscating through spotted windows in the middle of June on an early morning, cardinals chirruping amongst sun kissed fruits in the tawny branches of a peach tree and sporadic melodies sung on a broken record. The crisp sheets tangled around his legs contrasted against the warmness of his lover’s hand in his, your fingers linked and twitching under the ghost of a breath that swept from your parted lips. Your eyes were not open, but he saw clearly the beauty of the other, merely within a vision that his mind had comprised of memories made together, and that he hoped not to forget. You were awake now, blindly feeling for Draco’s face, and there arose a fleeting reaction under your shaking fingertips. He leaned into your touch with a sigh of content, replicating it by caressing your cheeks with such carefulness that you could have melted. Then, your eyes were opening to reveal what wonders lay in their depths, and what he saw was nothing less of pure, unbridled infatuation. There was movement, and a hand coming to rest at his hip before their lips were touching once more; gently, but with an unmistakable desire that sparked a flame from deep inside of him. 

_You were beautiful_. So beautiful that Draco temporarily forgot the pain he had suffered. He forgot his rule of falling in love and making himself susceptible to hurt; he forgot the scars that Harry had given him; he forgot that this would not last. All was _not_ well—at least, not yet—but for now, Draco could lie in bed with you for a few hours longer without caring what came next. 


End file.
